


The games people play

by SympatriCuckoo



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Brotherly Relationship, Gen, Underfell, but could be fontcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 06:10:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7628104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SympatriCuckoo/pseuds/SympatriCuckoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>" rksins: unconscious hand-holding"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The games people play

**Author's Note:**

> You know what rk? You need to stop this. It’s ridiculous how much your art makes me need to write. STAHP!!
> 
> Warnings: Drabble; gen; fellbros being bros; or can also be fontcest; idk which I was going for actually; sfw 
> 
> link to the art [here](http://rksins.tumblr.com/post/147985404128/unconscious-hand-holding).
> 
> titled based on the book: Games People Play: The Basic Handbook of Transactional Analysis by Eric Berne.
> 
> moving things from tumblr to ao3.

It’s Boss. Sans knows without looking, can recognize that staccato pattern of footsteps, that prideful bearing anywhere. He doesn’t look away from the tv, not even when Boss clears his throat self-importantly.  
  
  
“WHAT IS THIS?” Boss asks, disapproval clear in his tone.  
  
  
Like he doesn’t fucking know, thinks Sans uncharitably. “ ‘s Mettaton’s new drama.”  
  
  
“IT’S CRAP.” There’s a challenge in his tone, a hook to that statement.  
  
  
It’s hard not to rise to the bait - there are so many smartass remarks pooling on the tip of his tongue. Instead, Sans grabs the remote and raises the volume. Privately, he agrees. There’s no acting, there’s not even any substance - no plot, at all - but, well, he’s still angry.  
  
  
Boss stands next to the couch, hands on his hips. He doesn’t seem angry, doesn’t even seem frustrated. Still, he makes it hard to focus on the show, makes it hard to even pretend to focus on it. All of Sans’ being wants to turn, to just risk one look at Boss’ face.  
  
  
But that would forfeit the game.  
  
  
The couch dips. Cloth rustles. Boss’ presence nears until they’re almost touching, shoulder to shoulder, less than an arm’s width apart on the couch.  
  
  
Both brothers pretend to watch the show, the commercials (“Burlington Weapon Factory! Guaranteed decapitation at 150 paces or your money back!”). But the real drama unfolds between them, their silences the dialogue, their movements and gestures the rising action.  
  
  
Sans let his head dip and eyes close, a gentle forward bow followed by a sharp backward jerk as he reawakens. The seesawing of microsleep is familiar and easy to replicate, and Sans pretends to battle with his eyelids, sockets mere slits as he peers blearily at the tv, pretends not to notice Boss’ gaze on the side of his face.  
  
  
By the time the next set of commercials roll around, he’s feigning sleep, slumped back against the couch and snoring.  
  
  
He’s played his gambit, now he waits. It’s Boss’ turn.  
  
  
Eyes closed, every other sense is magnified. It becomes easier to sense auras, and Sans, already hyper aware of Papyrus’ (has been since the brat was born. Is there such a thing as reverse imprinting? Because that’s what he fucking has.), has to fight not to tense as he feels the roiling emotions emanating from Boss’ soul. Has to keep his breathing even and deep. It’s agonizing.  
  
  
The movement is expected, already broadcast through magic, but still Sans has to tamp down on the almost involuntary response to flinch at the touch. He’s utterly unprepared for the gentle slide of bone on bone as Boss’ hand slips underneath his, and his breath hitches.  
  
  
The game is up.  
  
  
“LAZY BONES.” The name calling harkens back to their childhood, an acknowledgement of Papyrus’ victory and of his apology.  
  
  
Sans takes care to snore more obnoxiously. A return to the status quo. Of his loss. Of an apology accepted.

 


End file.
